


But Are We Friends? (POV 2)

by Lucky7



Series: 1 Story - 3 POV's [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, POV Reese, Recovery, Rescue, Reunion, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:56:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucky7/pseuds/Lucky7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Reese didn’t plan for his latest mission to end up this way. In fact, when he had started this morning it seemed the assignment was to be pretty straight forward: protect a young man with some questionable connections to various low-life city trash.<br/><b>(Reese POV for "We Still Ain't Dating")</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rescue

John Reese didn’t plan for his latest mission to end up this way. 

In fact, when he had started this morning it seemed the assignment was to be pretty straight forward: protect a young man with some questionable connections to various low-life city trash.

He had been following his Number all day, and it soon became evident that it was a toss as to whether his target would end up as a victim or perpetrator, given the unsavory sort the kid called friends. That drugs were involved was patently clear from the start: his p.o.i. was a pumper…and stupidly, also a user. 

Young, under-educated, economically deprived…all factors that could be changed. But there is no cure for stupid, and as the day progressed he knew whatever was going to happen, it would not end well, no matter if he intervened or not. 

But intervene he did, when the young man left his customary hard corner to meet with buyers...who decided to forgo the pay-for part of the deal and go straight to the take-possession part. The two druggies each pulled a heavy piece out of their respective pockets with obvious plans to eliminate the middle man from the business transaction.

Reese moved into attack mode then and while he made a good faith attempt to keep both souls earth bound, the battle ended with the two thugs flat on the ground, on their way to meet their maker... while his Number stood rooted, observing the mayhem, seemingly dumbstruck that his buyers had just attempted to put a permanent end to his part in the deal. 

But that frozen state quickly thawed to expose a well entrenched vice…avarice…as he scooped up the money and the drug packets and stuffed them into his pocket. And then drew a gun on his savior. 

Stupid is as stupid does…

“Well thanks, man! Now I can double my money, and you can go down for snuffing these guys!” 

The young dealer had obviously watched too much TV, confident he could outshoot someone whose gun is already pointed and cocked. Reese carefully aimed for the kids kneecap and pulled the trigger, but as the younger man went down his shot went wild…on a dumb-luck trajectory straight to the ex-op’s thigh.

So here he is, lying in a filthy alley with a hole in his leg, his phone crushed somewhere and quickly becoming an indistinguishable part of the ground litter. And his luck just doesn’t seem to be getting any better, because now someone is attempting to finish him off by choking him. 

He tries moving his arm to ward off the attacker, but the appendage has become an anvil and refuses to budge. Opening his eyes in an effort to at least see who it is he will be waiting for in hell, armed with his own pitchfork - and surprise, surprise…

_Fusco…  
_

So what’s his pet detective doing here, besides putting hands on his neck? Oh, right. Checking for a pulse. Well, he’s not quite ready for a dirt blanket yet! With a great deal of effort Reese manages to get the words out.

“Don’t worry, Lionel. Still above ground…” 

He worries during the seconds of silence following his comment, thinking perhaps the words formed in his brain didn’t make it to his mouth. But then Fusco finally responds, “Yeah. I figured. Only the good die young,” and Reese wonders briefly at the relief in the cop’s voice. But that will have to wait till later; right now he’s having trouble just keeping his eyes open. 

How long has he been lying here? A few minutes…hours? And as much as he tries to stay in control, his train of thought is fast wandering off the rails… 

…  
 _He’s never wanted any pets. Not that he dislikes them…after all, he’d had a dog when he was young, one that he treasured above all material things. Scooter was of indeterminate heritage, a Heinz 57 variety, but a perfect companion for a high energy boy growing up on a farm in Puyallup._

_And unlike many of his peers, he took his responsibility for the animal very seriously: feeding, bathing, exercising, doing odd jobs to earn money to pay for food, vaccinations, vet bills…_

_But eventually, he’d had to leave his beloved pet behind, along with his boyhood, and went off to college. And then the army, learning only of his dog’s eventual death through one of the infrequent letters from home._

_Sorrow was sharp but his grief necessarily abbreviated, forcibly set aside by other more urgent military matters…and over the years the only vestige left of Scooter was the conviction that it really is easier to be alone than to get close and be responsible for another living entity. Reese never had another pet since._

_Until now, when it seems he has two…_

_Though to be fair, neither one of these pets were deliberately acquired. It was more a quest for effectiveness in one and efficiency for the other._

_In acquiring the first he was simply adding a source of information to facilitate the performance of his new job, and with the second, well, Bear could protect Finch whenever he wasn’t around. It was just a fortunate circumstance that his benefactor bonded with the dog and in the process took over most of the responsibilities of pet ownership._

_He accepts that Finch takes care of the dog, as he takes care of Finch, his priority, and despite that years ago resolution not to ever take on such a task again, he views the geeks well being as his obligation. He looks after Finch - not because the genius geek could ever be considered a “pet” - but because he owes the older man, without whose interference the ex-op knows absolutely he’d already be dead._

_  
As for his first acquisition Reese is the responsible one; his employer didn’t originally approve the need for the slightly overweight asset - in fact warned him that this pet might end up biting him. Though Finch eventually accepted the cop and now uses Fusco as an auxiliary asset himself, the welfare of that pet is square on Reese’s shoulders - which is why he checks in and out of Fusco’s life as often as he does._

…  
“Any other holes I should know about…other than this one in your leg?” Fusco asks gruffly, running his hands over the taller man’s body as Reese surfaces again. He wants to push away those hands and in his mind he does, but it seems his body is simply ignoring commands from Operation Central. He can vaguely hear the detective talking, the words distorted through layers of cotton stuffing, and all he can make out are indecipherable mumbles.

Then Fusco probes under the injured leg, and Reese is jolted suddenly into a painful present on a quick intake of breath. “…a clean through and through,” he hears. “Right through the muscle.” 

Well, that’s good, isn’t it? Or at least not as bad as the last time he got shot in the leg. And side. And however did his detective find him anyway? Finch probably. Hopefully. Interesting that Fusco didn’t take this opportunity to just get rid of his tormentor, but then again, he knew he’d read the chubby cop correctly from the start. 

And on that thought he sinks back into the cotton bales… 

(To be continued…)


	2. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knew he was good at reading people; his former job demanded that talent, because if an agent in the kind of work he did couldn’t accurately predict behaviors…well…he’d quickly be six feet under.

… _  
“I'm curious. Was there a point where you knew you'd become the bad guy?”_

_“Woke up one morning, realized I was paid to guard a bunch of jerks on Wall Street who were robbing everyone blind. Stealing my annual salary in an afternoon. So I said 'what the hell'?_

_“I don't believe you. See, I've been watching you Lionel, and your heart's not really in it. Stills does it for money, but I think you do it because you're loyal.”_

_And that was the beginning of his complex relationship with the cop. He knew he was good at reading people; his former job demanded that talent, because if an agent in the kind of work he did couldn’t accurately predict behaviors…well…he’d quickly be six feet under._

_And because of that talent, he knows Fusco is a man who longs for a leader, much like a puppy longs to follow the alpha. Despite his protestations to the contrary, Lionel can be won over by other than money, and the person to sway him is someone willing to lead his parade._

_“You ready to get to work, detective?”_

_“I’m no good to you. I’m dead. It’s a matter of time before the gangs get me or IAD.”_

_“No one knows you’re involved, Lionel. I took care of that.”_

…  
He surfaces to something connecting with his belt buckle, his first reaction being to immobilize whoever, whatever is touching him. His hand shoots out – thank God it’s working this time – and puts a vise-grip on a wrist. 

“Whoa! Take it easy Kemo Sabe! I’m only trying to help, not cop a feel!” is the immediate response. Fusco doesn’t resist the hold, probably instinct kicking in, telling him that it will only result in a struggle, one that if the detective doesn’t lose outright, will put his charge in even worse shape than he already is. 

The cop’s words finally seep through the cotton into Reese’s brain and he slowly releases his grip on the offending appendage. 

“Fine…” Reese whispers, allowing his hand to fall back to the ground. But a black fog is churning around him now, replacing that thick cotton, enticing him to just lay back and sink below its surface. Just let go and there will be peace and quiet and… 

But what is Fusco doing? He attempts to sit up but the effort to do so is monumental as the detective moves hands along his leg again, positioning the belt high up on his thigh then tightening it to – oh, God! All thoughts of darkness and peace and quiet evaporate, as he pants for control over the spears shooting into his leg. He fights to keep conscious.

“You’re going to have to help me here, buddy! You need to get up on your feet.” Fusco leans over, grabs him by the arm and pulls, and he stifles a groan. But though his leg screams at the change in position, one word seems to stick in his head.

 _“Buddy..?”_ he gives the incredulous response between pants. Fusco ignores the comment, concentrating on getting that one good leg under him, and with a great deal of maneuvering and pain, he’s finally upright, somewhat steady. He tries hard not to lean too heavily on the shorter man, but the cop is focused on moving the two of them as quickly as possible and simply pulls him into his own substantial frame, increasing their pace. 

Between pants Reese reminds himself to remember this moment as his detective is barreling along the alley with a burden a good head taller than himself. The scene is fraught with material for some really premium snarky remarks! He tries to craft some in his mind, but the effort to simply keep conscious leaves no room for anything save the determination to stay upright.

Fusco finally halts in front of a cab, the driver already out the door and rounding the car to help load his injured passenger, and - is that Fermin? Huh. Finch has been busy…

The process of positioning him in the cab leaves him in agony, part of which is the result of being folded into a too small space, his injured thigh under pressure as his knees brace against the back of the cab’s front seats. He is faintly aware of Fusco sliding in next to him, of the cab moving, but that black fog threatens to overwhelm him again. 

He fights to stay in the present…and loses.

…  
_“You know Lionel, next time you have a date, don’t be so melodramatic. I thought you might be up to something.”_

_“It’s called a personal life. After taking a bullet in the ass and saving your life more than once, you think I might’ve earned just a little privacy?”_

_“No.”_

_Of course not. But not for the reason that Carter or Fusco himself would expect from him: once a dirty cop, always a dirty cop and not to be trusted. No, the explanation is simple; he remains involved in Fusco’s life because the detective did not enter into this game voluntarily, instead is being forced to participate. And while he might not particularly wish it so, that makes Fusco his responsibility to protect. But that still doesn’t mean he will give the cop leeway to shirk his duties!_

_“I'm getting sick of doing your dirty laundry! Go ask Carter."_

_"Carter's busy working a murder investigation, Lionel. Didn't you take an oath to protect and serve?"_

_"Yeah, so?"_

_"So go be a cop!"_

_Over time Reese observed the detective beginning to act like the good guy again as between the two of them, he and Finch frequently positioned the portly cop to make the important arrests, close cases. And those events did not go unnoticed by the-powers-that-be at the precinct: Fusco fairly glowed upon receiving a commendation resulting from his injury protecting the fourteen year old Darrin. A dirty cop on the path to redemption._

_But it was not in his best interest to allow Fusco to stay on that path. With only a tiny twinge of conscious, he yanked the cop back into the dirt._

_“I can’t have you coming clean, Lionel. I need you inside HR, get close to them.”_

_“I was just starting to enjoy being a good guy for a change…”_

_"Sorry Lionel, you’ve done some good work. But you’re more useful on the inside.”_

_“My hands are dirty and always will be, huh?”_

_He didn’t answer, because to tell Fusco the truth - that indeed the cop was passing mile markers on the road to salvation - would make it that much more difficult for the detective to execute the role of dirty cop believably. So he forced his asset to continue to operate in that shadow world between decent and decadent. Much like he did for so many years working for the CIA._

_Sometimes Reese doesn’t like himself very much…_

(To be continued…)


	3. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holding the phone to his ear, he smiles at the grumpy response. He knows his pet detective well enough to understand the comment screens a well of sentiment that the cop simply can’t or won’t acknowledge.

He feels the slight tugging on his sleeve and suddenly the world tilts. _Fermin shouldn’t be taking these turns so hard._ But the thought drowns in a wave of overwhelming relief as the shift in position releases the agonizing pressure on his knees and thigh. His foot slips under the front seat and allows the injured leg to somewhat straighten. 

Ah, this is so much better. Not perfect – which would be him walking out of here on two healthy legs, but in comparison, the pain has diminished to a point where he can actually think. About other stuff. Like how he’s going to need to thank Fusco for this extraction. Yes, of course it’s Finch orchestrating the plan – it had the geek’s professional touch all over it – but the cop did the execution. Good boy to him.

Fusco shifts again and his head lowers further, coming to rest on a semi-soft cushion. He feels the fog closing in again, and hears the detective in the far, far distant, “Yeah…but just so’s you know: we still ain’t dating…”

Funny, Fusco, real funny! And he smiles to himself even as he slips into the darkness again…

… _  
It worries him a bit that the detective is so trusting with this new woman friend. Finch had vetted her at his employees’ request…huffing all the while of course, commenting that Reese shouldn’t be interfering, but gathering the data anyway._

_But nothing stands out particularly: she and Fusco were introduced by a mutual acquaintance, she’s a teacher, her cousin is a cop, she likes falafel…_

_And the poor unsophisticated cop seems smitten with her._

_But it bothers him to the point where, on a day they have no new Number, he follows Fusco around the city, telling himself he is simply practicing his shadow techniques, but knowing in reality he’s doing exactly that which Finch accuses him of…interfering._

_Still, it makes him feel better to see that Fusco’s day is about as uncomplicated as the cop himself. And that’s a remark to remember, he thinks, smiling already at the image of the cops face when he expresses it._

_He really just can’t help himself: this constant digging at the portly detective provides some welcome relief from the pressures of saving those Numbers the Machine spits out with such regularity. The fact that Fusco can give as good as he gets makes the game even more enjoyable since he doesn’t have to worry about pushing the cop to the edge._

_But he also knows how to keep an asset cooperating; a leader can’t simply give orders all the time – there has to be some acknowledgement when a follower performs as desired. A positive affirmation. Much like Bear needs to hear a “Good Boy!”, so does his detective. He tries hard to remember to throw in some “Thanks” along with an occasional “Good work, Lionel”._

_And it pains him sometimes to see how thrilled the cop is at hearing these infrequent comments of appreciation._

_He doesn’t forget how Fusco took offense, when he had told the Ayran brothers “I don’t have many friends – just the one in fact. Ok, maybe two…” The last had been added when Fusco, even with his mouth stuffed with a gag, still indicated his affront at being left off the list._

_But are we friends? Or just acquaintances working together for the greater good? Or maybe even less than that: a handler and an asset, the latter to be set aside when no longer useful. He honestly doesn’t know at this point._

…  
It would be great if whoever keeps waking him up would be a tad more gentle about it! He’s being pulled out of the cab now and man-handled by a couple of Goliaths insisting he lay down on that gurney. He attempts to resist, though his muscles seem to continue to ignore commands given by his brain! His leg buckles under him as he tries to gain some control over his position, but he is quickly supported by the twin mountains and lifted unto the narrow mattress.

Oh, wait. There’s Finch. And looking worried. Not good…! 

He tries to sit up again to assess whatever danger might be threatening his benefactor, but the effort sends knifing pains up and down his leg, causing him to moan no matter that he clenches his jaw against the agony. 

His eyes slit open again and he sees Finch wince. Finch is worried about him? _It’s alright Harold, I’ve got it under control_ …but before he can get the words out, his lids fall shut and the world turns black once more.

_Months later…_

Recovering from a bullet wound is always a painful process, but on the positive side, it went a bit faster than last time. At least he only had the leg wound to deal with this time around, though still had the extra burden of watching the man to whom he owed his life worry constantly whether death was actually going to step across the threshold and yank him to the underworld.

He had known that this time the danger was not so much from the wound itself as from loss of blood…a situation which was fortunately remedied with ample transfusions. Once that crisis was abated, his Finch was back to his irascible self, nagging his employee about little transgressions, like the loss of his phone. 

Ok, not the phone itself, but the communication it represented. It became apparent that his boss had at sometime during that day been convinced the mayhem in the alley had ended with his hired gun being killed.

Explanations that the phone had died a horrible death when he’d stepped on the mobile device during the ensuing gun fight was not enough to get him out of a lecture on the necessity of not entering into such fray without backup. And his repeated reminders to the agitated geek that he was not mortally wounded had not stopped the Finch from worrying obsessively about _“what could have happened”._

He even repeated what Fusco had said, “Only the good die young”, a remark that was not received in good humor. So he gave up and simply took what pleasure he could in the available off time, sleeping long hours, eating healthy, and spending time with Bear…who insisted on sharing the bed with him. 

Finch, and all the medical personnel objected mightily at seeing a dog on those clean sheets, but a well practiced glare and a lift of an eyebrow forestalled any further comments. And if Bear wanted that extra pillow, then he could have that too!

Though the doctors and nurses were handpicked, and no doubt the best in the country, his boss still seemed to take the position that if left alone, he would either die or walk out of the place never to be seen again. Neither of which of course was a possibility as he was not in danger of dying and had no intention of jeopardizing the future functioning of his leg by ignoring professional advice. Which advice included a strict regime of physical therapy after the wound had healed sufficiently. 

But with new Numbers from the Machine, it's time to check up on his pet detective again. Leaning on the crutch, he picks up his phone, his fingers unerringly finding the familiar code.

“Hello, Lionel. Miss me?” he purrs, knowing how that insolent tone irritates the cop.

There is a long pause at the other end, then finally, “Nah. You been gone?”

Holding the phone to his ear, he smiles at the grumpy response. He knows his detective well enough to understand the comment screens a myriad of sentiments that the cop simply can’t or won’t acknowledge. Which is fine with him…this is a game he knows how to play well.

_Ah, Lionel, it’s good to be back… ___

____

\-- End --


End file.
